The lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue
des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or.
A man of good appearance, wearing a white apron,
and stroking his gray mustache with a large hand, uttered
a cry of joy on perceiving the pied horse. “Monsieur
le chevalier,” said he, “ah, is that you?”

“Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle,
and these raisins,” said Planchet; “they
are for the store-room of monsieur le surintendant.”

“Send them off, send them off!”

“That is only the affair of a moment, then we
shall sup.”

“Arrange it that we may sup alone; I want to
speak to you.”

Planchet looked at his old master in a significant
manner.

“Oh, don’t be uneasy, it is nothing unpleasant,”
said D’Artagnan.

“So much the better — so much the better!”
And Planchet breathed freely again, whilst D’Artagnan
seated himself quietly down in the shop, upon a bale
of corks, and made a survey of the premises.
The shop was well stocked; there was a mingled perfume
of ginger, cinnamon, and ground pepper, which made
D’Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boy, proud
of being in company with so renowned a warrior, of
a lieutenant of musketeers, who approached the person
of the king, began to work with an enthusiasm which
was something like delirium, and to serve the customers
with a disdainful haste that was noticed by several.

Planchet put away his money, and made up his accounts,
amidst civilities addressed to his former master.
Planchet had with his equals the short speech and
haughty familiarity of the rich shopkeeper who serves
everybody and waits for nobody. D’Artagnan
observed this habit with a pleasure which we shall
analyze presently. He saw night come on by degrees,
and at length Planchet conducted him to a chamber on
the first story, where, amidst bales and chests, a
table very nicely set out awaited the two guests.

D’Artagnan took advantage of a moment’s
pause to examine the countenance of Planchet, whom
he had not seen for a year. The shrewd Planchet
had acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his
countenance was not puffed. His keen eye still
played with facility in its deep-sunk orbit; and fat,
which levels all the characteristic saliences of the
human face, had not yet touched either his high cheek-bones,
the sign of cunning and cupidity, or his pointed chin,
the sign of acuteness and perseverance. Planchet
reigned with as much majesty in his dining-room as
in his shop. He set before his master a frugal,
but perfectly Parisian repast: roast meat, cooked
at the baker’s, with vegetables, salad, and a
dessert borrowed from the shop itself. D’Artagnan
was pleased that the grocer had drawn from behind
the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which during
all his life had been D’Artagnan’s favorite
wine.